Page 51 of Dukes All Night Long

Scars and Sparks

Violet

T he interior of Evan’s opulent carriage felt too small once the door closed behind them.

The gas lamp’s flickering glow danced across the plush seats, catching on polished brass trim and shadowing the hollow beneath Evan’s cheekbones.

Tension bracketed his mouth, and his gaze—restless, uncertain—reflected a man caught between memory and regret.

The slow roll of the wheels cut through the silence.

“I never thought we’d be together like this again,” he said finally. “Alone at night, in a carriage, our past between us like a third passenger.”

Violet kept her tone even. “You left without a word, Evan. That tends to sour hopes for tender reunions.”

“I know how it must have looked.”

“Do you?” She raised one eyebrow as she met his gaze, the old ache flaring like a bruise pressed too hard. “I’d just buried my husband the previous year. You made me laugh again—feel again. Then you vanished like it never mattered.”

His eyes darkened with something like pain. “It mattered more than you know.”

The admission hung between them, fragile as glass.

Violet turned to look out the window, watching London slide past in a blur of shadow and lamplight.

Her reflection stared back at her, superimposed over the night.

She hardly recognized herself—the carefully pinned hair, the widow’s restraint, the mask of professional detachment.

Three years ago, her smiles had come easily with Evan.

She’d felt young again, reborn in his presence after the long darkness of grief.

“Do you remember the evening at Lady Whitmore’s garden party?” she asked suddenly, her voice softer. “When it rained unexpectedly?”

A smile tugged at his mouth, unbidden. “Everyone rushed inside, but you pulled me toward that ridiculous little gazebo.”

“We were soaked through.”

“My valet was horrified.” His expression warmed at the memory. “You laughed until you couldn’t breathe.”

“It was the first time I’d laughed like that since Peter died.” She turned from the window to face him fully. “That’s what you gave me, Evan. And then you took it away.”

“There wasn’t a day I didn’t think of you,” he said, the words rough-edged. “But the stronger my feelings grew, the more I felt them slipping out of my control. I was certain walking away was the safest choice.”

“But you did walk away.” Her voice steeled. “You weren’t a duke, not even the heir. You were free—yet you still chose to run. Did you think I’d trap you in something joyless and dutiful? That I’d turn into your mother?”

“No.” He met her gaze unflinchingly. “I feared I’d become my father.

Their marriage was a slow, bitter war, and when he died three years ago my mother retreated to the country in relief.

I moved in with my uncle and aunt at Westbridge House, and their partnership was the opposite—steady, kind, cooperative.

Seeing the contrast only convinced me how easily love could curdle into regret—that I might be the one to ruin us. ”

The carriage hit a patch of rough road, jostling them. In the swaying lamplight, she could see the taut line of his jaw, the vulnerability he was trying to mask.

“That night at Lady Harrington’s ball,” she said quietly, “when I waited for you by the terrace doors—”

“I’d already left London,” he finished. “I couldn’t bear to see your face when I told you. I was a coward.”

Old pain stirred behind her ribs, softer now but still there. “You shouldn’t have made that choice alone.”

“I regretted it the moment the carriage pulled away.” His voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “But by then pride kept me moving forward. Each day made it harder to return.”

The carriage hit another rut. The jolt pressed her against him, her shoulder warm against his. Neither pulled away.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Apologies only matter if they’re meant.”

“Then I’ll keep meaning them until you believe me.”

She studied the heavy signet ring on his finger, the symbol of a title that had never been meant for him. “Can you still be the man I once fell in love with? The man I needed? Or are you only the duke now?”

“I didn’t ask for the title. But I’m not just a name or a fortune. I’m still me.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Messy and unprepared, perhaps. But I’m trying to find what’s still real.”

Violet looked away, swallowing against the tightness in her throat. “I’ve changed too. I’m not that grieving widow anymore. I’m stronger. I’m here tonight for a reason—and it’s not just sentiment.” She forced her gaze back to his. “But that doesn’t mean seeing you like this doesn’t hurt.”

He reached for her hand—just a touch, not a claim. “Whatever brought you back, I want to help.”

She closed her eyes. “We’ll deal with the rest once we reach your townhouse. For now, no masks. No clever sidesteps.” She looked at him again, directly this time. “No pretending we don’t still feel something.”

His breath caught. “No pretending,” he echoed.

Some of the weight between them shifted. Not gone. But shared.

The carriage rattled on. The lantern’s glow caught on his profile—sharper than she remembered, older. But not distant. Not to her. Violet’s breath hitched as she met his gaze, because she saw it: the ache in her heart mirrored in his eyes.

Another bump. Her hand landed on his knee. She didn’t move it. Neither did he.

“Why does it feel like nothing’s changed?” she asked, voice quiet.

“Because it never ended.” His voice dropped. “I tried to bury it, but it’s still there.”

He took her hand. Warm. Steady. Familiar. Her breath caught as her defenses faltered.

“You were always the first person I wanted to tell things to,” he said.

“Then why didn’t you?”

“I was a coward.” His eyes didn’t flinch. “But I’m here now.”

He leaned in, the space between them burning away in a heartbeat.

She met him halfway.

The kiss wasn’t sweet. It was desperate. All heat and ache and unfinished business. Her glove slipped to the floor. His hands fisted in her cloak. She kissed him back with the same fierce hunger, a need fed by three years of silence and longing.

Then it shattered.

She pulled back, lips parted. “This is a mistake.”

“Probably.” His forehead rested against hers. “But it didn’t feel like one.”

Their breath mingled in the silence.

“We can’t,” she whispered. “Not tonight. I have a mission to complete.”

“I know,” he repeated, but he didn’t let her go.

Eventually, she straightened her cloak with trembling fingers. “We’re not here for us. We’re here because your uncle tried to expose something—and died for it. If I hadn’t come tonight, you’d still be gambling, still chasing numbness.”

Evan leaned back, dragging a hand through his hair. “Right. Of course.”

The carriage slowed. Grosvenor Street.

Violet retrieved her glove, pulling it on with brisk precision. “We’ll find the documents. And then we’ll talk about what that kiss meant.”

He didn’t argue.

A church bell struck the hour outside.

Inside, the silence pulsed with everything left unspoken.